


Discourtesy

by Pseudomorph



Category: Sunless Skies
Genre: Dominance, M/M, Other, Psychic Rape, Size Kink, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-04-23 09:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19147819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudomorph/pseuds/Pseudomorph
Summary: Part of why the Halved turned to the Liberation of Night.





	Discourtesy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aphoticdepths](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphoticdepths/gifts).



Once, two brothers reigned in Eleutheria: a binary star, the King Who Speaks and the King Who Wars, twin rulers of measurement and distance. The King Who Speaks had been dreamy and idealistic; the King Who Wars had ignored advocacy for change, and occupied himself with battles and chariot races.

Now there is only one king in Eleutheria. Now the King Who Wars calls himself ‘the Halved’. And since his brother died, he has stopped attending balls or races. He has neglected correspondence and Correspondence. He hadn’t even consulted the Sapphir’d King after his brother’s demise; hadn’t come to him with unanswerable questions about mortality or doomed exhortations for resurrection. The Halved had given them so many delicious souls over the years, and yet, those responsible for his brother’s death haven’t entered the Blue Kingdom, nor any other domain of death.

“It is worse than worrying,” the Sapphir’d King tells his daughter. “It is _discourteous.”_

Besides the Halved’s appalling behaviour, there is also the matter of disturbing rumours about revolution in Eleutheria. Regardless of what happened, _both_ brothers allowed the Solonacean Conjunction into their realm. Rightfully, _both_ are responsible for the growing whispers of dissent in other courts.

Thus, the Sapphir'd King departs from his domain, flanked by legions of logoi -- living Correspondence symbols, concepts incarnate, roaring with Law and fire.

They find the Halved’s palace a much-changed place. The gate is manned by a single servant; the hallways are empty, lit by candles rather than internal glory. Apparently the Halved has distributed his personal bodyguards among Eleutheria -- to discourage other storytellers, and to punish their failure to protect the King Who Speaks. There are new figures standing immobile in the throne room, eternally burning, faces twisted in agony. A classic punishment, though sloppily executed. The King recognises their armor: the Solonacean Conjunction’s.

Too little, too late.

The Sapphir’d King sends his logoi to summon the Halved. Then he waits, allowing his impatience to simmer. The Halved has yet to remove his brother’s throne. Sentiment. How odd, for a warmonger.  

Minutes, perhaps years later, the Halved enters his own throne room like he’s being dragged inside in chains. Grief and hate have wildened his gaze and stunted his strides. The once-proud Judgement has allowed himself to fall into a state of degeneration. He crosses the room without a glance at his guest, slouches into his throne and does not offer a hand to kiss.

“What are you doing here?” questions the Halved. His voice trembles. He hasn’t used it in some time.

“I heard about your brother. I come to offer my condolences.”

The Halved’s working eye narrows. Does he suspect the King of foul play? Really, now. That almost makes him _want_ to commit a crime to earn accusation.

The King ascends the stairs to where the Halved sits, flickering in tactful apprehension, the closest he can bring himself to faking deference. When the Halved doesn’t protest aloud, he drapes himself around the throne.

“It’s a shame,” says the Sapphir’d King. His touch blazes, even for a star -- closer to a brand than a balm. “Such a bright, brilliant member of our court, snuffed forever - ”

“He was murdered.” Iciness hardens the Halved’s voice, and though the King maintains his composure, his ire flares to match it. “We both know that you see artistry in his extinguishment. Unhand me.”

From the moment he heard the news, the King could sense loss deeper than grief, a certain separation. Now the King senses dignity on its last legs -- something pathetic and vulnerable, under all that anger, just waiting to be killed for good. It’s weakness. It’s _less_ than what the Halved should rightfully be. Breaking the Great Chain is a serious crime. But they’ve all _thought_ about it, and this bedraggled Judgement is the best substitute for the King to indulge himself in debasement.

“I wonder about that.” The King doesn’t remove his hand. “Who would kill your brother? He had no powerful enemies.” He laughs shortly. “According to my records, _your_ enemies are all dead.”

“Are they, now?” the Halved murmurs.

The King makes a point of looking around. “Or otherwise occupied.”  

“Well, my enemies were his enemies. Until the end.”

The untold story behind the Halved’s words hangs in the air and holds it captive. The King bristles. Can the Halved not see how his suspicion ignites the atmosphere around them and urges the King towards desire? After all, suspicion borders on suggestion.

“You shouldn’t suffer in solitude,” says the King. “I could stay.”

The Halved sniffs. “I assure you, that is unnecessary.”

“I’ve been told that I bring comfort, in a way. Beings beg for my release.”   

“They also beg to be released from you. What are you talking about?” Testy, testy. The Halved slaps the hand off his shoulder. “Stop that.”

“I could take your burdens. Kill your inhibitions. Tear down your sorrow. But if you will not give…” The King nudges his gloved fingers under the Halved’s chin. “You will find that I’m accustomed to taking.”

The Halved’s expression contorts in realisation. What happens next would be too fast for a lesser being to see, much less comprehend. The Halved speaks yawning distance between them, shouts an expanse for himself to escape. The King murders distance with a whisper, whips around a pillar and pins the Halved to a corner.

“You can’t kill _distance_ _,”_ the Halved insists, voice shaky.

“You can’t run from death,” counters the King. Without his brother, the Halved is weak, much weaker than he realises. The King takes a single step back, grabs the Halved by the shoulder and hauls him forward. “Your bedroom. Show me.”

Each step is a battle. But whenever the Halved tries to unleash diatribes of distance, one word from the King reminds him of a blade in bare skin, blood on forest dirt, the fading shimmers of light widely considered to be worse than death itself. Once they’ve reached the Halved’s chambers, the Halved is shivering from overexertion.  

For Judgements, violation occurs on multiple levels, inflammatory ideas enforced by uttering Correspondence. It occurs in distorted reality: both gaping holes in the fabric of space-time- _everything_ and subtle shifts which could be dismissed as forgetfulness. It occurs through the shrinking distance between them, the death of silence as the King penetrates the Halved’s defenses with cruel touches and jeering glances. Plate by plate, strip by strip, armor and vestments fall away, leaving the Halved no less splendid yet completely vulnerable in his nakedness.

“I heard he was found disrobed,” says the King, conversationally, as the Halved struggles in his grip. “Did they strip him at knifepoint?” His lips graze the Halved’s ear. “Or did he do it willingly, the vapid little slut?”

The Halved tries, once more, to force distance between them -- he’s feral, fighting for time rather than dignity. The King lets him stumble back to the door before laughing and killing the small measure of hope. While the Halved is disoriented from disbelief, the King kicks his ankle and hurls him towards the bed.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” rasps the Halved. “Get it over with.”

“I haven’t issued a Courtesy,” says the King, disgusted. What kind of savage does the Halved take him for? “Anyway, you would only sully death. You do not deserve it.”

Even with the Halved’s weakened state, the King doesn’t dare fully disrobe. He wills a phallus-shaped construct for himself, attached to his very core, moulded out of aether and fire and spite. He considers the Halved’s equally hateful expression. The King enlarges the phallus. 

He pushes the Halved’s knees upwards and wrenches them apart. The Halved screams at the first thrust -- a high, sorrowful, fury-filled Correspondence symbol, which sparks and disintegrates all over the bed sheets. Against his own will -- appropriate to his own nature -- he acutely feels every inch of the King’s intrusion, intuitively knows exactly how deeply he’s being penetrated. What would otherwise be a devastating invasion is also a pervasive rot seeping through every layer of the Halved. Pain ignites the King’s soul, down to the hungry core, and he withdraws slowly, savouring his construct’s drag against solidifying unwillingness.

The Sapphir’d King repeats the process. The construct throbs hot, thickens in anticipation of more. Still, he hasn’t fit the whole thing into the Halved. The Halved screams again; this time, the Correspondence symbol shrivels before it’s left his mouth, and withers on his lips. The King licks off the residue and shoves it back into the Halved’s mouth.

“Don’t try to distance yourself from the present,” warns the King, “or I’ll return with, say, the Garden King. He'll bind you with vines and strangle you with thorns. We'll plague you with the memory of today, while we make new memories for you to relive afterwards.”

“You wouldn’t,” the Halved chokes. “He wouldn’t - ”

“I can be very persuasive.” To illustrate his point, the King lowers a hand to where he expects to find the Halved’s sex; the Halved gasps and strains to will space between them. The King allows it - all it accomplishes is forcing the Halved to re-experience the King wrapping his fingers around him.

It has been long, the King thinks, since the Halved has been touched. He leaks plasma over his stomach as easily as the King pours it into him with each brutal thrust, the phallus sinking further and further each time. The Halved flares in fury and misery, unable to decide whether to shut his eye and give the impression of surrender, or glare at the King and be forced to watch.

The King stills at the end of a particularly sharp thrust. “Tell me how deep I am,” he demands. The Halved snarls; the King raises a hand to slap him, then reconsiders and pushes down on his stomach instead. The snarl contorts into the start of a whimper -- the Halved names a number unfathomable to anyone but fellow Judgements, in their secret system of measurement. “And how much of me do you have left?”

The Halved wrenches his head to one side and mutters another number. It’s high. It sounds right.

“Wrong,” says the King, and enlarges his construct again.

Light fractures in the Halved’s eye as the growth dawns on him. So great is his shock, he’s rendered silent in horror. That irritates the King; with each thrust, he endeavours to force pained moans from the Halved’s mouth. 

For hours, for eons, the King subjects the Halved to ceaseless brutality, his hands harsh on his hips, down his sides. Anguished cries of Correspondence churn inside the Halved, pleasantly singeing the King's construct. The Halved's abused core thrums in protest and unwilling pleasure until it's swollen near the point of bursting.

“Come in me, come in me,” the Halved gasps, “just end it already, please, _please_ \- ”

Time constricts like the Halved's body, hot with the destruction of self-worth and what little trust had existed before today. The King quakes and roars his completion. Outside the bedroom, logoi’s flames dance higher from the echo of pleasure as he unloads torrents of plasma into his wailing victim.

It isn’t over. Not until the King has killed every scrap of dignity. He speaks a series of Correspondence sigils: need fulfilled after ages of longing; self-loathing spicing forbidden pleasure; the temporary abolishment of regret. The Halved groans, despairing, and tries to spend far away, but the King twists just right, like a knife buried in a back -- he kills the Halved’s resolve and has him splatter himself with his seed.

The sex was heavenly -- no thanks to the Halved, the King thinks. He’s just an acceptable receptacle for a good fucking. The King lingers inside him, forcing him to feel every extant throb, each satisfied pulsation. Then he withdraws, wiping his construct on the Halved’s thigh. The Halved quivers in shame and indignation as the King stands.  

The King takes a moment to appreciate how the Halved drips azure-streaked plasma and flickers in a myriad of emotions, all tinged with hate. Chuckling, the King heads for the door, too delighted with the afterglow of conquest to care that his back is turned. He hears footsteps -- the Halved has also risen, clambering towards the King in unsteady lurches. He’s in no state to fight, and they both know it, but his working eye seems different. Perhaps it’s clearer. Perhaps it’s more manic than ever before.

This, the King expects: the Halved grabbing him by the collar, yanking him close to snarl in his face. But he isn’t expecting the subsequent silence. He isn’t expecting the Halved to kiss him fiercely. And he sees it in the Halved’s eyes as it happens: the Halved shoves distance between himself and the memory of his ravishment, until the pain has scarred into an ugliness the King can’t describe.

“Thank you,” says the Halved, venom lacing sincerity of every syllable. “I understand my brother now. I understand why he let them in.”

The King has half a mind to fuck him again, to force an explanation; but he is winded from the magnitude of the earlier pleasure, and the Halved speaks a word which whisks him away. The bedroom door locks behind the King.  

Later, the Halved meets the Second Storyteller. It is unknown what, exactly, transpires, only that the Halved is steered towards revolution. Then he commiserates with the King of Hours, combines distance and time to greater effect. The lights go out in Eleutheria. The Garden King dies, purportedly by the Halved’s hand. It’s no matter. The Sapphir’d King kills the King of Hours for his part in the Halved’s recovery, spreads rumours of the time he took the Halved in his own chambers and made him beg for his come.   

The Red sends the King a Messenger simply asking, _Are you fucking crazy?_ The Sapphir’d King replies, _Only once_.


End file.
